


Vampires Will Definitely Fucking Hurt You

by french_toast_dicks



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Angst, Frank is druuuuunk, M/M, Vampires, gerard is saaaad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 09:02:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13050822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/french_toast_dicks/pseuds/french_toast_dicks
Summary: Gerard tries to avoid people at all costs due to his nasty habit of craving blood, but Frank is so pathetic that he can't just leave him there.





	1. Chapter 1

The relative warmth of grocery store air hits my face, smelling of cardboard and unopened plastic bread bags, as I enter the only place still open at this time of night. It’s warm compared to the autumn winds gusting just outside of the glass automatic doors, but a chill still remains deep inside me- one which I cannot rid myself of so easily, a chill of tepid stillness where veins should be warm and pumping, of a sickening empty spot where I should be able to feel my heartbeat, of lack of air moving through my lungs, and, even worse, a lack of need for breath. I am still. Everything is still, but not quite. Someone is retching in the bread aisle.  
The nauseating sound penetrates my temporary veil of silence, reaching me in dreadful, sickening heaves. I look up, my squinted eyes still adjusting to the bright white light of the store, and see a weak looking figure stumble but not quite fall, barely staying upright by leaning against a shelf. The figure coughs, gags, and eventually tumbles to the floor. I am still. I look around for any employees who could help the poor person out, but a singular cashier is asleep at her station- just my luck.  
In seconds I’m kneeling next to a pale boy with dark circles under his reddened eyes. He’s drunk; I can feel the alcohol and the blood running through his veins before anything else, but the next thing I notice is that he looks so young. Younger than me, definitely by a few years at least, which is saying something because I’m fresh out of college. I’m sure he’s at least close enough to drinking age and should technically be able to take responsibility for making the choice to get completely hammered, but somehow I can’t get it out of my head that he looks so lost and pathetic and like someone I would help out in a heartbeat if I myself wasn’t a threat to his safety just by being in the same room. Still, the helplessly dazed expression on his face is tugging at a place in my chest I had previously thought was long gone.  
He lies crumpled on the floor, letting out an almost silent groan as I gently touch his shoulder and ask, “Hey, are you okay?”  
The boy meekly shakes his head and sort of scrambles in what looks like an attempt at sitting up. I see his plight and grab his shoulder to steady him and bring him to a sitting position up against a shelf full of Wonder Bread. I wonder if he can feel the icy chill of my hands through his thick grey sweatshirt. I can smell alcohol on his breath, feel his warmth, and hear blood pumping throughout his body. For a moment a craving for the liquid which flows through him overcomes me, but the feeling subsides slightly when he begins to cough once more. I have to ignore the urge to even look at his neck, knowing nothing good will come of doing so. I shouldn’t be this close to anyone right now with how hungry I am- how hungry I’ll always be.  
I try again, “Um, are you okay? Are you sick? Do you need me to like, call someone, or…?”  
He shakes his head vehemently, finally replying in a creaky, broken voice, “No- nobody to call, ‘m fine, ‘s okay.”  
He’s obviously not. A shock of greasy black hair sticks to his forehead, matted and filthy from vomit and gosh knows what else. Stains from what looks like a number of different beverages cover his hoodie, which is just the slightest bit too damp for my comfort. I fight the urge to wipe my hands on my jeans. Heck, I want to wash my hands just thinking of the gross and unfortunate state this dude is in. But I don’t. He probably needs help and who am I to leave someone struggling to stand without further expelling the contents of their stomach in a grocery store bread aisle? I still don’t wipe my hands.  
Grey and brown smudges of dirt and grime adorn the knees of his blue jeans, and his shoes are untied on the wrong feet. Upon further inspection (which comes in the form of me attempting not to leer but probably leering the hell out of the poor guy) his lip is bloodied and the shadowy purple around one eye stands out more than that of the other, making for the beginnings of an impressive black eye. This boy is the definition of not okay.  
“Well I’ve gotta do something, I can’t just leave you here. Do you live close? Can I walk you home?” Right now, pity for the meek boy slumped on the white tile floor in front of me is squeezing the life out of what rationality (and fear for the safety of those around me) is left in my brain. I haven’t bitten anyone yet, so I’ll just have to focus on thinking about anything other than the soft, pale skin of his neck and hope I don’t change that fact.  
Plus he’s cute. Like really cute. The kind of cute that makes me want to throw up because he’s so pretty even all messed up like this, and what the hell does he look like on a good day if this is his worst? On a good day, I’d be lucky if I could look at him without taking a bite. There’s also the fact that there’s no way in hell the guy currently staring bleakly at his dirt-encrusted fingernails and swaying even though he’s sitting down, is going to make it home safely on his own tonight. No way in hell. I don’t even think he can stand up by himself.  
He looks up with wide, foggy hazel eyes like a dreary fall sunset, and says, “Yeah… wait, no. I live… live over, uh, there…” He limply motions an arm to the right, causing a few loaves of bread to topple off the shelves. This might be more difficult than I imagined.  
“Okay, uh, can you tell me your name at least?” Bad idea. The miserable drunk dude is better off possibly choking on his own vomit than being anywhere near me. And who the hell just goes around picking up hopeless drunks and helping them out? Me, for fuck’s sake. It’s as if helping as many others as possible could ever make up for what I am and what I inevitably will do, as if it could lessen the stifling burden of guilt that I carry. As if.  
He looks up, giving a strange, crooked half-smile and mumbling, “I’m Frank, and… and you?”  
His smile, although alcohol-ridden and meaningless, for some reason makes me feel like I would be blushing right now if I could. I reply, “I’m Gerard. Uh, nice to meet you?”  
He laughs, a hiccupy sort of giggle, and slurs, “Yeah, sure, super nice. Best circumstances ever to meet someone like you.”  
Someone like me? He’s so drunk. But now I’m committed to making sure he gets home safe because what’s the worst that could happen? If he turns out to be some serial killer preying on people who try to help strangers about to pass out in grocery stores, then lucky me! I no longer have to be alive in this world hurting people. Lucky me- there’ll be one less someone like me in the world.  
“I, uh, sorry… is there anything I can do to, uh, help?”  
His brow furrows. He has cute eyebrows. What the hell. “Help? What?”  
I shake my head. “You’re drunk as hell and sitting on the floor of a grocery store. I kinda feel compelled, y’know?”  
He grins a sparkly half-smile and I notice for the first time that he’s got a lip ring. How the hell did I not see that before? Now it’s all I can look at as he says, “Gee thanks, cutie, but this floor is super comfy, can’t I just stay here?” and begins to giggle uncontrollably. Drunk. Only drunk. And not looking to get his blood sucked out by a creature of the night.  
“Um… no? Look, man, you’re totally not okay on the fucking floor of a grocery store all night unless you’ve got some weird kink for the common cold and people stubbing their toes on your face on their way to find the Little Debbie cakes. Lemme help you up. We can get you some water and figure out how you can get home. Sound like a plan?”  
And finally, with a hiccup and a giggle, Frank nods his head in agreement, mumbling something along the lines of, “Ooh, cute boy’s already talkin’ ‘bout takin’ me home,” as he attempt to stand.  
I quickly grab his arm to steady him and eventually bring Frank to a standing position. He’s swaying excessively now, the kind of swaying that makes you second-hand queasy just to look at, and he leans on my shoulder for balance, clutching at the basically nonexistent muscle of my upper arm in hopes of not collapsing to the floor again. I can feel the heat radiating off him, the cheap beer running through his veins, the shaky, almost sporadic intakes of breath. All so close. Up against my side, leaning and pressing and living and breathing. I’m starting to get the feeling this is going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

Frank sits uncomfortably close to me on the sidewalk outside the store. He sips at a juice box like he’s not drunk out of his fucking mind and slumped against a brick wall next to the saddest excuse for a vampire you could possibly dream up. His cheek falls to rest on my shoulder and it feels for a second like that’s not due to his drunken state. I shrug it off, shaking him off of me. He murmurs a bit and returns to his leaning position.  
I inhale an entirely unnecessary breath. The air smells like fall and night time. Frank smells like vomit and cheap beer. I get him off of me just long enough to come to a standing position, looking down at him, at his dopey eyes and stupid tiny little figure crumpled like he just fell there out of the clouds. He looks like he really could have fallen from the sky, pathetic and beautiful, like any minute he could go and float back up there and away from me. I want to hold him down so he doesn’t go. I want him here, even if he belongs in the sky.  
Instead of gripping Frank’s hands and anchoring him here with me, I sigh (unnecessary breath) and say, “Hey, we’ve gotta get you home. So, uh, where to?” I try to sound stern and annoyed like I couldn’t care less whether or not he gets home safe, but I know that’s not true and it shows. I think I just sound tired.  
He gives that half-smile again and begins to stand up, grabbing my arm for help. I cooperate, pulling him upright. Frank points to the left, mumbling, “That way,” and we’re off.  
At first the walk is silent save for the sound of Frank’s now slow and regular breathing, both of our ambling footsteps, and the occasional direction from Frank, but that doesn’t last long.  
A couple minutes into our walk, when he’s beginning to move in a slightly straighter line without leaning so much weight on me, Frank speaks up, “So, what’s you story?”  
I’m startled. “What?” He doesn’t want my story. I don’t want my story. What does he even mean by that?   
He clarifies, “Well, we already know why I was at the grocery store at such an ungodly hour, ‘cause I’m a lil’ drunk and I was hungry or some shit, but what about you? What’s your excuse? Late night snack run?” Frank runs a hand through his greasy hair, eyes shimmering in the combined light of street lamps and the moon. He’s still leaning on me for some support in walking, but I can’t exactly say I have a problem with it- in fact, his warmth and closeness is almost comforting. Almost.  
As we turn another corner, he leans into me especially far again, meaning I’m just that much closer to him and his beating heart and all of his blood. For the first time tonight I realize the full extent of my hunger. My stomach isn’t just empty, it actually hurts from how hungry I am- a dull, aching pain like it’s folding in on itself, paired with sharp pain in my head and a strange light feeling in my limbs. Oyster crackers and juice aren’t going to fix this, but for the time being I’ll just have to deal. It’s not exactly like I can pick up some small rodents on my walk home with Frank. That is definitely not how to make a good first impression on a cute guy, even by my messed up vampire standards.  
I try to shake off the increasingly weak feeling in my bones and look up at the yellow flickering light of a street lamp above us, illuminating an empty sea of right angles and grey-brown brick. “Uh, yeah. Late night snack run.” I smile to myself, because I’m not exactly lying, I just left out the part about not being able to make any other sort of snack run for fear of a pretty nasty sunburn. Late night snack runs are the only snack runs.   
Frank frowns up at me, “What?” Not ‘what’ like he doesn’t understand, ‘what’ like there’s something I’m not telling him (There is.) and he wants to know (He won’t.)  
I reply, “What?” like I don’t understand. Because I really don’t.  
“Why are you smiling?” I hadn’t thought Frank had seen that. I didn’t think he was looking at me, or even that it was noticeable enough to be seen as anything at all. I thought he was looking at the yellow smoky glow of the street light like like everyone else here. (like just me)  
“Am I not allowed to just smile? Because I want to?” Valid question, not that I often want to smile though.   
“No. No you aren’t,” Frank replies in a voice like a six year old proclaiming that nobody else is allowed to play with his little green tractor toy. I’m still focusing on the lambent street lamps as we slowly amble by each one, but I can practically hear the smirk on his face. Drunk.  
“And why is that?” I ask in the smoothest voice I can muster. Is this flirting? I obviously wouldn’t know. I feel that vampires are inaccurately portrayed in the media as always attractive and good at seducing people so they can drink their blood. I neither seduce people nor drink human blood and I don’t plan on doing so. (At least the seducing people part. If Frank and his stupidly attractive neck get any closer I might find myself changing my mind about the blood drinking.)  
“Because you’re a big sourpuss and you never smile. You’re like some emotionless secret agent, or, like, a vampire who doesn’t wanna smile too wide and show his fangs.” Frank giggles, presumably at the silly thought of me being a mythical undead being meant to be slayed by teenage girls.  
I laugh, surprised at the coolness with which I’m playing this off as a joke. “Hey! That’s not true! I’m so not stealthy enough to be a secret agent, and wouldn’t I have eaten you by now if I was a vampire?” Yet another valid question.   
Frank’s grinning now, and it’s not the hazy drunk grin like before. He still smells like vomit though. “We don’t know that for sure! Maybe you’re gonna kidnap me and take me into your secret vampire dungeon to feast on my bodily fluids! And you were just at the grocery store so late looking for vulnerable drunk fairies like me!” He seems proud of himself for that one, and I’m not sure whether or not the term ‘fairy’ is meant as a good or bad thing. He is delicate like a fairy though.  
I stifle a giggle, suddenly self conscious about whether or not Frank might really notice my fangs, but also getting a strange feeling that he wouldn’t mind if he did know what I was. I catch myself staring at his mouth again and quickly reply, “Kinky.”   
His laugh feels like all the air is being sucked out of my chest even though there wasn’t anything there in the first place. Except it’s not like a bad air-sucking feeling. It’s like he’s sucking out all the empty and pouring me full of bubbly, fizzy white light and gold sparks- like he’s replacing the inky black nothing with champagne happy and white-gold magic. The scary part is I’m not even exaggerating.  
And then the laughing seamlessly morphs into talking again, a voice low and bubbly like the light he’s pouring into me. A voice mocking my prime comeback skills. “Wow, Gee, way to get creative with the comebacks.”  
“In my defense, you can’t just start talking about dungeons and bodily fluids and not expect me to call you kinky. That’s like, the epitome of kink, man.”  
“Touché, my probably blood-sucking friend,” Frank replies as we both trip at a slight dip in the sidewalk.  
He chuckles (magic sparkles again), “Careful, Gee. You’re kinda failing at your job as the sober guy who catches me when I fall on my face. Be less tippy.”  
I wish I could. However, in truth I’m probably barely doing any better than Frank at this point. The last time I went any longer than this without blood, I passed out on my apartment floor for six hours. The headache when I woke up was excruciating, not to mention the unbearable hunger that wouldn’t subside for the next three days. I need to eat soon, unless I’m looking to relive that experience. In the meantime I’ll just have to try and stumble through dizziness and nausea just like Frank. Drunk.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no intention of finishing this and it's old as hell, but I felt like I should do something with it. So there you go.


End file.
